


You’ve Set my Soul to Dreaming

by ej_writer



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas Presents, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Pre-Slash, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Underage Drinking, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ej_writer/pseuds/ej_writer
Summary: Steve gets presents for all his friends.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	1. December 15, 1984: Time for Gifts and Giving

Christmas has always been Steve Harrington’s time to shine. 

It wasn’t that it was his favorite time of year; darkness falling at 5pm bummed him out, and the heat in his house was never good enough to stand up to the freezing, unpredictable Hawkins weather. Overall, he preferred the spring, when the sun was warm and the breeze was cool and the flowers were blooming. 

But festivity, that suited him well, and, probably more than anything, so did giving people things. In the non-physical sense, he always gave his all to ensure that everyone around him was happy. 

Whether that was a good character trait or a flaw on his part he had yet to decide, but nobody could say that Steve Harrington was selfish. Sometimes it felt like he gave so much away that there wasn’t even much of him left at all, so much as just who he tried to be for his friends, for his parents.

Literally though, he was the best at presents too. Maybe it was the unlimited bank account, or just the fact that he was so considerate, but everyone always loved what he bought, or made, in the case of the few exes who’d refused material possessions over a heartfelt, handmade gift. (ugh) 

That’s why, every year, he couldn’t help but buy as many presents as possible. For his mum, his friends, though the supply of those was getting rather sparse recently, the kids he babysat, their parents, the neighbors, the house keepers, his teachers, pretty much just anybody who he could possibly think of a reason to give them something got an expensive little novelty in hopes that he'd get to see their grateful reaction.

Sometimes he wondered if they just faked it to make him feel better about himself, but he kept doing it anyhow because it did make him feel better about himself, thank you very much. 

Especially because recently, there was a lot going on to feel not so good about. 

This would mark the tenth year in a row that his parents flew out to the tropics, where it didn’t snow or reach temperatures even half as cold as Indiana, and that’d been fine and dandy for a while, since before, he was living in the childish daydream being home alone, and after that he’d always had someone to spend it with.

But this year, this year he’d be all alone, in his mansion big enough for half of the city’s population to fit inside, and he’d been feeling pretty lousy about it since they informed him of the trip in early December. 

That and the fact that he’d almost been killed a handful of times literally a month ago didn’t bode too well for his Christmas spirit. 

Steve Harrington didn’t back down from a little hardship though, so what if he was plagued by a sense of crippling loneliness and nightmares bad enough to keep him awake for days on end, that just wouldn't be enough to keep him from rising to the occasion. 

‘Tis the season to shove aside all that troubles you and put the needs of others before your own right? 

So the morning of the fifteenth, the last day before winter break, Steve does as he always does and ditches his books, opting to instead stuff his backpack full of presents. 

They’re wrapped terribly, he’s never been too good with his hands, and recently they’ve started to shake when he gets too nervous, so it’s kind of, lumpy, wrinkled, way too much wrapping paper on tiny boxes, but he’s happy with it. Even if he stabbed himself with the scissors about a million times and got tape in his hair trying to get them wrapped. 

Another of Steve’s holiday trademarks is ugly sweaters. He has exactly twenty five of them, one for every day leading up to Christmas, and he wears them religiously. 

These aren’t just any old tacky sweaters either, they’re homemade, the ugliest of the ugly. 

His gramma had done basically nothing but knit in her free time, so when she heard that her grandbaby wanted a Christmas sweater and couldn’t find one that wasn’t made out of wool, (side bar, he was extremely allergic, like, life-threateningly so) she made him enough to last him the entire month of December up to Christmas Day. 

Thank heavens she was terrible with sizes, so they all still fit if not just a little snugly even about 10 years after she made them. By now they were somewhat faded and pilled and riddled with loose threads, but they were soft as all hell and one of a kind, so he didn’t bother with replacing them. 

This particular morning he’d chosen a white sweater embroidered with tiny versions of his childhood poodle Charlie in her little Christmas hat, the first his gramma did without a pattern, and his absolute favorite. 

Maybe everyone else though it was dumb how into the whole thing he got, but nothing made him happier than pulling up to the school in a sweater from ‘74 with a bag full of overpriced knickknacks. 

Steve started his day by giving Jonathan and Nancy their gifts in the cafeteria before the first bell rang, since they wouldn’t all three see eachother again throughout the rest of the day, and he could barely contain his excitement. 

Watching his friends carefully pull apart the crummy wrap job he’d done was probably one of the best feelings ever, in his opinion. Or maybe it was just the knowing that he’d put a thoughtful effort into making other people happy combined with the fact that he was using all that hoarded wealth that went towards nothing but funding his parents trips to bring someone a gift that would mean more to them than those wasteful luxuries. 

Whatever it was that compelled him so, it was enough that he had to stuff his hands in his pockets and bite his tongue to keep from making a fool of himself in front of the whole school while he waited for Nancy and Jonathan to open their presents. 

This year he’d reined the budget in a little, since last Christmas he’d gone just a little bit overboard with a $300 camera for Jonathan and a necklace and a ring for Nancy that cost him a 7th of his (very expensive) car payment. He still probably spent more than was considered normal, just not enough that his parents would notice the huge sum of money missing this time.

They didn’t have a whole lot of time before the bell would ring and they would split off to their respective classes, but it was enough that Steve got to see their reactions and revel in the hug Nancy gave him on behalf of the both of them. 

He’d opted to get Jonathan a bag for the camera he’d gotten him last year, since you never know when something could happen to it, and before he even had it all the way unwrapped, Jonathan was getting his camera out of the bag he already used to put it in the new one. 

Nancy got a bag this year too, but hers was a fancy designer thing he’d picked out of a catalogue meant for his mother. He figured she’d need it for when she went off to college, or got the journalist job she’d been telling him about for a year and a half. 

Heading off for first period, he already felt the swell of pride that comes with the season, and he could not wait to hand out the rest. 

Perhaps another of his favorite parts was that, giving people things was the secret to saving his reputation when he was the way he was. 

Everyone knew Steve Harrington was the “up to no good” type, who bought weed off of the shady guys camping out at parties, and got in your daughters panties just to promptly break her heart, and who fails all of his classes and barely scrapes by in high school. 

But then he shows up in a hand knitted sweater and with a candy cane between his lips to spread his Christmas cheer, and suddenly all is forgiven, and he is transformed into the sweet Harrington boy who always gave the most thoughtful gifts. 

First on the list was Mrs. Click, the history teacher he’d been stuck with since sophomore year. 

History was by far his worst subject, and Mrs Click wasn’t the type to make sure you understood before she sprung a pass or fail pop quiz, so he’d failed her class twice. 

Even with how stupid she had to think he was, the bright smile on her bitter old face when he handed over the little box with a large Givenchy brooch inside meant that he’d earned his redemption for the third year in a row. 

Next was the tie-pin for Mr. Cook, the Spanish teacher, a little golden thing that had cost him more than he’d like to admit and earned him a pat on the back. He was good enough at remembering what he had to know in Spanish, but reading and speaking it? He might as well have been completely illiterate. 

His pronunciations were so poor that even the chunky ruby inlay was almost not enough to save face, but in the end his ego got its booster anyhow. 

The rest of the day went on like that: a bottle of Mon Parfum for Miss Foster, the English teacher, a SoundBand for the coach, a giftcard to the most expensive store he could think of for Mrs. Hall, and so and so forth, each giving him that same rush of confidence, a sense that he was doing something important until he was practically floating through the halls. 

By seventh period math, he’s only got two gifts left. A fancy pen set for Mr. Butler, and the other, well, the other one is for Billy Hargrove. 

Billy Hargrove who, only about a month ago, had beat his stupid face in and gave him a concussion he still wasn’t quite over, and who definitely wasn’t going to give him that giddy joy he usually got from giving gifts, but he still felt like he needed to extend a holly branch. 

Because the way he saw it, Billy couldn’t take all the blame for what went down, so why shouldn’t he be the one to try to apologize, be the bigger person and earn Billy’s respect through his shopping abilities like he did with everyone else. 

He knows it’s kind of poorly thought out, maybe even completely crazy to try to make a peace offering to a boy who could practically be called his bully, but he’s still not anticipating the fact that, when he walks down the third row of desks and holds out the little box wrapped in red paper for the other boy to take, Billy just sort of stares at him. 

Shaking it a little, like he’s trying to get the attention of a cat with a bag of treats, Steve sets the box down on Billy’s desk and retreats to his own seat a few aisles over. 

That’s where it stays until about halfway through the period, which is just a free day anyways, no 75 year old man in his right mind would make a room full of teenagers do algebra on the last day before Christmas break, when Billy finally leans forward and snatches the gift box off the polished surface.

Steve could try to pretend he’s not staring, vibrating in anticipation of Billy’s reaction to the gift, a silver zippo with Venetian engraving, but he’s caught when Billy, having dumped the lighter out of the box and into his hand, turning it over a few times, turns to look at him. 

There’s a look on his face that’s a cross between confusion and surprise and something unreadable, like maybe he’s trying to tell Steve with just a look that this was a mistake, and he’s going to kick his ass again as soon as the bell rings, but in a way he still thinks it’s worth it. 

Because Steve Harrington does not have enemies, no matter how many toes he steps on and things he does wrong, and maybe Billy won’t accept a fancy lighter as an apology, but at least he’ll know that he tried to make peace. 

Even after he turns his attention to the gossip circle running in front of him, Steve can feel Billy’s eyes on him. It’s borderline creepy, in Steve’s own opinion, but he supposes he can understand it. 

He might have been a little more grateful and not so stalkerish were he in the same situation, but, potato potahto. 

As soon as the bell rings Billy’s out of there like a bat out of hell. He’s up out of his seat before anyone else, halfway out the door and tossing a crumpled ball of red paper in the trash before the rest of the class could even blink. 

At first, Steve isn’t even sure that Billy didn’t throw the whole zippo away, but he sees it catch the light from where it’s held tight in Billy’s fist just before he disappears through the doorway completely. 

The fact that the lighter wasn’t in the bottom of the trash can was a good sign, but, this still didn’t bode all that well for a Christmas truce.


	2. December 24: And Dark, my Standing Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy returns the favor.

Billy can’t believe he’s doing this. 

Can’t believe that he’s pulled up outside of 8253 Loch Nora, a gift box in his passenger seat, unwrapped because that would look like he cared too much, a lit cigarette fogging up his windows, and a sense of dread settled heavy in his heart. 

Just because Harrington bought him the fanciest thing he’d ever had the pleasure to own didn’t mean he had to return the favor, right? 

Wrong. Because it wasn’t just your typical, ‘I’m loaded, and you’re dirt poor, so let me get you this novelty that costs more than you have in the bank because I'm better than you’ from Steve, but something more like a peace offering. 

A peace offering from the loser of the fight, which made Billy look like even bigger an asshole than he already was. 

Like, it was bad enough that he’d even beat Steve up in the first place, but then to just ignore his attempt at reconciliation and keep up the machismo shtick? Even he was better than that. 

So he’d fretted for a week about what a rich boy would want, and shoveled sidewalks for old people and flirtatious mothers to be able to afford it. Not that the Hargroves didn’t have enough money for a dinky little gift, Billy just wasn’t allowed to spend his father’s wages on anything less than necessity. 

Christmas presents for some boy definitely didn’t fall under that category. 

In the end he decides on giving him a flask, decorated with similar filigree to that on the zippo, only it’s much more cheaply made. He hopes the sentiment is still there, because he knows Steve can put alcohol away faster than you can say chemically dependent teenaged washup. Afterall, just a few nights ago at Jenny’s Christmas Party, he saw him drink a whole bottle of vodka in under a minute.

Besides, regardless of whether or not it’s something he needs or cares about or is just going to throw away, it’s just to get even, this isn’t some life changing gift exchange. No sweat. 

Maybe Billy has that all worked out in his head, but then he’s got another problem. He can’t decide on how the present is going to get to Steve. 

If he should just leave it on the porch and bolt, if he was going to ring the doorbell and hand it right to him, or if he would just drive right on down back to Cherry Lane and keep the stupid hip flask for himself, and pretend the whole thing never happened so he could move on with his life. 

He loses the chance to choose when the double doors to the house are pulled open, and the silhouette of the one and only Steve Harrington appears. 

It would be more than weird to drive away now when he was obviously already parked outside, and even weirder to just sit in his car until Steve goes back inside, so he sucks it up, grabs the box off his passenger seat, and steps out of the Camaro. 

Rounding the front of his car and taking a few steps toward the porch, Billy decides to toss Steve the box without so much as a muttered ‘heads up.’ They’ve been playing basketball together for two months now, and he knows from experience that Steve’s surprisingly good at dodging fists, so he’s pretty sure he’ll catch it. 

And he does, if not a little clumsily, with a stupid, shocked look on his face. Billy might even say he almost looks as dumb as the sweater he was wearing, which had a Christmas tree crocheted into the center and was at least fifty percent tinsel. 

If his head was screwed on straight, maybe Billy would’ve even said ‘Merry Christmas Steve, thanks for the beautiful fucking zippo I use it every day, sorry ‘bout the face’ but it wasn’t, so instead, what he said was actually more along the lines of, 

“Save your donations for the red kettle Harrington.” 

And then he thinks he’s out of the woods, thinks the lack of an answer is the symbol he needs to put this drama behind him and pick a new pretty boy to pick on, but just as he pops the Camaro’s door, Steve finally lets his response tumble out of his mouth. 

“Why don’t you come in, Hargrove?” Steve turns the box over and over in his hands, nervous as he tries to get out what he’s going to say. “Nobody’s home, and I made a bunch of cookies. Got some spiked eggnog too.” 

And, it wasn’t like Billy’d rather be back at his own house right now, that was actually the last place on earth he wanted to be, so he wasn’t beyond entertaining the notion. 

He isn’t easy though, he’s not the type to just, waltz on in to some McMansion looming over him just because he’d been asked so politely. Especially not when the circumstances of this specific circumstance were the way they were.

“Whatd’ya put in it, the eggnog?” It’s a stupid question, just a way to stall until he can come up with an excuse to go in the mansion by his accord, but the answer, well, it’s not much better. 

“Chicken Cock.” Steve says it with such an air of nonchalance that Billy isn’t sure he’s heard that right, but then again, the people down in the Midwest referred everything with weird nicknames that he’d never even heard of. What was puppy chow anyways?

He can tell there’s a bewildered look on his face, though it gets overtaken by a slightly humored smile as he asks. “‘Scuse me?” 

Blame it on the bitter cold if you please, but a flush appears on Steve’s cheeks at the realization of what his words might sound like to somebody who had no idea what he’s talking about. “I-It’s a spirit, it’s really strong and- why don’t you just come try it, yeah?” 

Its cute, but Billy needs one last attempt at casting out the line before he gives in and accepts Steve’s offer. “Real smooth, Harrington, but I gotta get back to the festivities at home.” 

“Sure, ‘cause you're totally the type for that.” Steve rolls his eyes in a sort of false annoyance before he starts on his mockery. “Bet you sing carols, and bake cookies with your little sister and tell stories of your favorite Christmas memories around the Yule log and-“

“Alright, Harrington. Since you asked so nicely.” He couldn’t keep saying no with Steve practically begging him to come inside, so, stepping up onto the stoop, Billy scrapes his boots against the porch rug to knock off the snow so he can go inside. “But I’m outta here by midnight, alright?” 

With a smile, Steve steps aside to let Billy through the door. “Deal.” 

Ornate woodworking and fancy wallpaper goes unnoticed, because the first thing Billy notices about the Harrington mansion is that it is an absolute disaster. although he would expect a cleaning lady to have come through and kept the place all nice and pristine like you see in the magazines, there was shit everywhere. 

Piles of bubble wrap and newspaper stuffed into plastic containers, wires and strings and tape all over, a power strips and thumbtacks, and suddenly Billy realizes something. 

“This your attempt at Yuletide cheer, Harrington?” 

For a moment he looks at Billy confused, but follows his line of sight to the heaping boxes of decorations scattered throughout his living space. “Oh, no, I just didn’t finish yet.” 

Billy can’t help it when he blurts out, “It’s Christmas Eve.” 

Steve nods dumbly, something that should at this point be his registered trademark. “Uh-huh.” 

“And all your decorations are in a pile in your living room?” Even Billy knew better than to wait until the last minute to get things done, and Harrington always seemed so on top of everything, regardless of if he was doing it right, so it was kind of jarring to see him in such a disheveled mess the night of Christmas Eve. 

Steve says, in a tone so casually condescending, “Seems that way, yeah.” 

“Didn’t leave enough time between your panty raids to get it done?” Snark is met with snark, but, because of the circumstances, there’s not the typical edge to it that would be expected from the two of them.

“I manage my escapades perfectly fine, thank you.” Steve toes at a box heaping with ornaments and labeled with the words ‘to throw out’ written in cursive on the side. “My parents just think decorating is too undistinguished, so I’m only allowed to have them up for a few days.” 

“Right.” Billy agrees like he understands, but he really doesn’t. How can sprucing up your house with a bunch of fancy and expensive trinkets and decorations be any worse than leaving it empty and barren? Rich people. “And how, exactly, would they know if you put them up early?” 

Tossing a strand of garland that had previously been draped over the back of the chaise, because of course they have a chaise in their first living room, Steve says, “Shut up and help me put them up then.” 

So he does. He untangles giant knots of tinsel, of lights and of icicles, and unwraps all of the Harringtons’ precious glass ornaments for Steve to put on the artificial trees (he’s allergic to pine) in the entrance hall and the dining room. 

He puts up the glass stocking holder and hangs the silky, designer stockings, which, judging from the faded fabric and the peeling letters written in red glitter glue to spell out STEVEn, are from a time when Ruthie and Stephen Sr. still darkened these doors. Alongside them on the mantelpiece, he hangs a handful of Christmas cards from Steve’s random relatives up on a thin piece of ribbon. 

The banister of the grand staircase is wrapped in miles of scratchy garland, enough that they can hardly see the wooden finish underneath, and matching wreaths are hung in the windows and on the doors. 

Just to prove how rich they were, the Harringtons also have a rather extensive collection of those ceramic trees, not the type you make yourself, but the expensive ones you can order from Avon and other designers Billy can’t even pronounce the name of, and they’ve put one on just about every surface that is close enough to an outlet for a plug to reach.

There are so many extension cords run through every room, Billy’s worried that Steve might end up burning up in a house fire, but it’s worth it to see the twinkling lights reflecting on blank white walls, the soothing colors brightening up a space he could imagine was typically devoid of life. 

And in the end, having wrestled with dusty old decorations to transform Steve’s house into something so, so pleasant? spirited? entirely unfamiliar to someone like him? he thinks he’s earned the hard whiskey he was promised at the door. 

Hours go by, and the two of them are sitting in the center of the giant French Country rug, a cotton and silk substitute for the Persian Steve turned out to be allergic to, backs against the coffee table and more than a little tipsy. 

Leaning back on his elbows, Billy lets his head fall back, his sprayed curls fanning out over the mahogany surface, where they have a bayberry candle burning out of the top of an empty bottle of Stephen Sr's liquor of choice. 

Blinking slowly up at the ceiling, the blur of the colorful lights making him dizzy, he asks, “So, how does this work, without your parents here, d’ya just, buy your own presents and put ‘em under the tree yourself?” 

“Nah. They mail them to Miss Hetty the help, and she brings ‘em to me in the mornin’. 7 a.m. sharp.” He pops the p on the “sharp” like he’s proud to admit he has a nanny at almost 19 years old. 

“The help. Think that’s somehow more depressing.” Billy ignores the way Steve’s eyebrows furrow together and his quiet, mumbled out, “Rude.” 

“Don’t think I have much room to talk though.” He sits up again so he can look at Steve. “Your zippo’s the only thing I’m gettin’ this year, ‘cept for maybe a-a good backhand or two after Susan gets her family photos.” 

A smile cracks across the other boy's face as he lowers his voice, sounding all too excited to say, “Guess that makes us a couple-a misfits then, huh?”

And Billy can’t help the laugh he lets out at that god awful reference, true as it may be, and it's with a smile on his face that he says, “God, you are such a cheeseball, man.” 

“Hey! I saw an opportunity, and I had to take it.” There’s a smile equal to his own on Steve’s face, as he laughs at what he said with Billy, and the moment passes. 

In the silence that follows, they sit just like that, appreciating their moment of camaraderie that they know is going to come to an end soon, as the grandfather clock chimes for another hour gone by, the bayberry burns down another few centimeters, and the headachy feeling of too much alcohol starts to set in. 

It was nice to not be surrounded by faux affection and suffocated by the fear of stepping out of line, but like all good things, Christmas Eve must come to an end at some point, and so it was that, around quarter to twelve, Billy makes his first attempt to stand on drunken feet. 

Based on the fact that he doesn’t immediately fall on his ass, he’ll probably be alright to drive, not that he really has much of a choice, so he grabs his keys off the coffee table and announces his departure. 

“It’s been real Harrington, but duty calls.” 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks man.” Steve waves Billy off and leans forward, letting his forehead come to rest against the surface of the laminated hardwood, obviously more affected by the whiskey than the other boy. 

But Billy finds himself cemented to the spot, fingers fiddling with the buttons on his denim jacket as he tries to get together what he wants to say, because he still hasn’t properly apologized. 

Not that it’s something he’d normally do, but some things can’t be fixed with Christmas Decorations and cinnamon spirits. “Look, I’m sorry, about the, the fight and everything Harrington, I just-“ 

“S’okay.” Steve tries to look at him, but he's barely able to sit up anymore. He’s got an arm slung over the top of the coffee table to keep himself upright, and his words slur to be almost unintelligible as he tells Billy, “Already forgave ya.” 

“But, I don’t- you shouldn’t-“ Taking a deep breath through his nose to collect himself, Billy continues, “How did you know I deserved that?” 

“Chalk it up to the Christmas spirit.” Accenting his words with the slightest shrug of his shoulders, Steve smiles a knowing little grin and says, “Go on home, Billy.” 

“Right, I’ll, see ya round then.” He starts to walk away, taking steps made shaky from the alcohol in his system, but from behind him he hears Steve say softly, “Wait.” 

Turning around, he raises his eyebrows to show Steve he’s at his attention, and Steve, eyes glossy and cheeks as red as the big man’s suit, looks him right in the eye (and the heart) to tell him. “Merry Christmas, Billy.” 

“Yeah, you too, Harrington.” The softness in his tone feels like a betrayal to himself, and he thanks the lord above that Steve is too drunk to hold it against him.

One last look over his shoulder, and he sees Steve face down on the coffee table again. Chuckling to nobody but himself, he thinks that maybe the flask wasn’t such a bright idea after all. 

Shutting those heavy double doors behind himself and getting back in the Camaro, while his hands shake and his heart races, is a strange feeling to say the least. 

Just up and walking away from the most genuine expression of compassion he’d ever experienced, knowing that, with what’s waiting for him back at home, he’s not going to ever let something like this happen again, makes him feel like he should just go running back in there, forget about curfews and abusive fathers so he can pursue this, this whatever with Harrington, but he knows that isn’t really an option. 

Knows he’ll get too attached if he doesn't leave now, that nipping that growing feeling of acceptance, of forgiveness, of warmth in his heart three sizes too small, right in the bud before it turns into something more wicked and ruins a perfectly good Christmas Eve, is the best possible thing for the both of them.

This was just an apology, righting the obvious wrongs that had taken place in November, and nothing more. 

Because having Steve Harrington three sheets to the wind and showing him the slightest bit of compassion wouldn’t be enough to break him down, no sir. This was Billy Hargrove after all, he didn’t let trivial things like throwing away potential friendships bring tears to his eyes, not in a million years. 

Or that’s at least what he’d like to think, but in all reality he does, shows up back at his own, completely average house back on Cherry with red rimmed eyes and it doesn’t go unnoticed when he walks through the front door. 

So Billy spends the night just as he expected he would; a bruise forming on his cheek, wide awake in his bed, while visions of Steve Harrington danced in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So this was slightly rushed so I could meet the Christmas deadline I set for myself, but I hope it reads well regardless! If you read this let me know what you thought! Expect more to come in the not-so distant future! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! -EJ


End file.
